


Picture This

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexual John Watson, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Hiding Behind Tea, Humor, Idiots in Love, It's All Fine, John is a Bit Not Good, Johnlock - Freeform, Lestrade Betting on Johnlock, M/M, No Angst, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Smut, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9349667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: John Watson assumed his flatmate was asleep. He was wrong. Now, following some awkward deductions that revealed more than he wanted to admit to himself, he and Sherlock will have to decide - sweep it under the rug, or do something far more interesting on top of it.





	

John Watson didn't know how long he'd been staring at his flatmate's back. He hadn't consciously registered the pull of thin grey fabric across protruding vertebrae, or the sliver of creamy skin exposed above the waistband of faded flannel pajamas. He wasn't sure when his fingers had begun caressing the arm of his chair, or when the now unmistakable tightness at the front of his jeans had begun. All he knew was that this was a bit not good. And yet –

 _And yet – he is sleeping. He wouldn't have to know._ John licked his lips, then started at his own thoughts. _Wouldn't have to know? Know what, Watson, that you sat here doing… doing… that, while staring at him? And why the hell are you even thinking about that anyway? YOU'RE NOT GAY. And even if you were… not… quite… straight…_

John focused again on the long body of his prone flatmate, who had rolled onto his back, one hand resting on his chest, rising and falling with each shallow, even breath. _Those hands…_ John's mind spun an image, wholly unbidden and (surprisingly) not at all unwelcome, of those strong hands, those long fingers, gripping his own short grey-blond hair. Of flashing blue eyes looking down at him, taking in the sight of John – John Hamish Watson – preparing to…

Utterly unaware of his actions, he had drawn down his zipper and slipped two fingertips through the narrow opening, applying just the slightest bit of pressure against his aching erection. He let out a small gasp of relief, and was reaching to unfasten the button just as the figure on the couch began to speak.

"Honestly, John. If you're going to do that here, you could at least confirm that I'm sleeping first."

John's mouth dropped open. _Stupid, stupid, Watson. How did I not check… he must've been asleep though, otherwise I never would've… what? Never would've started touching myself ~~while staring at~~ in front of my… my…_

"Oh, do hurry the inner monologue a bit, won't you? It's a bit boring for those of us on the outside of your funny little brain." Sherlock was still lying on his back, one open eye trained on the flustered blogger now standing in the center of the room, attempting to right his clothing. He let out a sigh and sat up.

"It's only transport, John, it's truly not that big of a deal. Not standard practice for you certainly… which I suppose is a bit curious… hmm."

"Don't you 'hmm' me," John snapped, shifting his weight uncomfortably and staring out the window. "Hmm what?"

"Well, if my observations are correct – and they always are – you've never done _that_ in this room before, and certainly not while I was present. That means that you were either desperate, which is unlikely given your frequency of longer-than-necessary showers," John's ears turned red, but he would not be baited into responding, "or that something unexpected caught your – shall we say, attention? – in the moment. Since it was almost certainly the latter, the question is, what could it have been?"

"Sherlock," John said wearily, finally turning to face his interrogator, "as you said yourself, it's not a big deal. Can we just drop it?"

"I'm afraid not."

"You're afraid not? Why?"

"I'm curious."

_You wouldn't be so curious if you knew I was picturing –_

"And what was that?"

"What was what?"

"You said I wouldn't be so curious if I knew what you were picturing – well?"

"I did NOT say that."

"Not out loud, but you did think it."

_Goddamn mindreading son of a –_

"Calling me names won't help, John."

"Fine. Look, this is… frankly, I'm embarrassed enough without you trying to deduce what I was thinking about. Can we just drop it now, please?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, shook his head decisively, and stood before his leather chair. "This is the closest I've come to a decent case in weeks. _Weeks_ , John. So unless you'd like me to explain to Mrs. Hudson in great detail what drove me to adding more bullet holes to her wallpaper, you'll indulge me."

At the words "indulge me," John swallowed hard. It was going to be absolute torture, and somehow he would have to make it through this without Sherlock Holmes learning exactly what was going on in his mind. He walked slowly to his own chair, gave a resigned nod, and both men sat.

"Now," the detective began, "we both know _what_ you were about to do. I've established that it was a spur of the moment decision, which means it was brought on by something here in this flat. Whatever it was, it inspired a mental image that you found arousing enough to eschew typical social norms and attempt masturbation in front of your flatmate."

John winced, looking away and longing to be anywhere else.

"Oh, interesting," Sherlock noted happily, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "You turned your head toward the far end of the sitting room. Let's see, shall we?" He jumped up and strode to the spot just behind John's chair, ducking down as if to take in the other man's visual field. "Window slightly ajar, unseasonably warm breeze. Fraying wallpaper. Disheveled desk – two laptops, violin case, newspaper clippings of pending police investigations with painfully obvious solutions. Sofa."

"That's it," John leapt from his chair and raced into the kitchen. "If you're going to make me sit through this, I'll need a cup of tea."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You've been making more and more tea lately, but only when I'm home."

"Have not," John retorted, willing the kettle to boil faster. "I drink tea when you're out."

"When I'm out, you drink tea as you always have. However, for the past month or so, you seem to have almost tripled your tea intake while I'm in the flat."

John clicked the kettle off prematurely – _good enough_ – and poured the steaming water over two tea bags placed in the largest mug he could find. Not a word was spoken until he'd finished stirring in his milk.

"Your hand, John. It's shaking."

John clenched his fist reflexively and wiped his palm on his jeans, then wrapped both hands around his mug and held it up to his mouth.

"Ah, and there's that, too. You don't simply drink your tea anymore. You hold it in front of you like a shield. You're hiding behind your tea. What are you hiding, and why are you hiding it from me?"

"Oh, I don't know, couldn't be that you're a self-indulgent pain in the arse who can't be trusted not to ridicule his friends over their secrets now, could it?" Despite his words, there was no cruelty in John's voice. Only…

"Fear. You're afraid of me finding out. Why? Are you afraid of what I'll think of you, what I'll say? Why would you be worried about that? What sexual fantasy could you possibly have that would matter to – "

Sherlock stopped speaking abruptly, his head whipping around to look back at the sofa.

"Jawn," he drew the sound out almost nervously, "the… the sofa. Your eyes, when you… they were open. Did you… were you thinking about…" He inhaled deeply and forced himself to look his blogger in the eye. John was frozen in place, mouth agape, undisguised terror in his eyes. The two men stood motionless, minutes passing like hours, neither knowing what should come next. Eventually, it was John who summoned the courage to speak, mostly because he couldn't hold that damn mug in front of his face one moment longer.

"Listen, Sherlock. I… I'm sorry, ok? It wasn't… I didn't plan it, or anything. It just sort of… well. Look. I know what you're probably thinking, and I can't blame you for that. I just hope we can – "

"What, John? What am I thinking?"

_I have no bloody idea._

"That it's just transport, and that it's an expression of weakness, of giving in to some chemical urge – "

"Is it?"

"Sorry… is it what?"

"Is that all it is? Giving in to a meaningless chemical urge?"

"I… um…"

"John," Sherlock said quietly, addressing the floor, "you have to… I need to know."

_No. I'm in love with you, you fucking git._

"Yes. 'Course. 'Course that's all it is," John answered as matter-of-factly as possible.

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Oh. Alright then. Well, I suppose that's… I'm sorry to have bothered you about this."

_Wait…_

"Sh-Sherlock," John's voice shook, but he didn't bother fighting it. "Did you… want my answer to be 'no'?"

"Of course not. I solve murders and you blog about it. That's fine. It's all – "

"Because I'm obviously lying."

" – fine. What?" The detective's head jerked up, eyes wide.

"Lying, Sherlock. It's not just a chemical… whatever I said. At least, that's not how I see it." Now it was John's turn to study the floorboards.

"You mean, you…"

"Well… yes. I…"

"But you're always going on about how you're not…"

"I know. I mean, I'm not. Not completely, anyway. This is the only time I've ever… well, ever even questioned it."

"So is that what you're doing? Questioning it?"

John risked a glance at Sherlock, and realized that the man in front of him looked on the verge of collapse. Not from drugs, or exhaustion, but from emotion. He'd never seen him like this, and the vulnerability in the eyes of world's most outwardly unfeeling person suddenly released everything he had been holding back within himself.

"No, Sherlock. I'm not questioning it," he answered softly, stepping toward his… _um, well, I guess we'll see in a minute…_ "I've answered it. You've answered it." He slid one hand along a clean-shaven jaw, his whole body sinking toward that immaculate pink cupid's bow. He hesitated a moment when Sherlock didn't meet him halfway. "Haven't you?"

"John," the younger man whispered.

It was all the response he needed. One moment they were sharing a tentative first kiss, the next they were stumbling through the sitting room, tripping over the carpet as John pushed Sherlock backwards, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing but his best friend's tongue slotting against his own. He was barely aware of his… _his… oh who cares, time for that later…_ falling backwards into his chair, of his own legs straddling his flatmate's thighs. He was too lost in the tidal wave of emotion and lust to notice himself sliding to the floor between the other man's knees. It wasn't until he was face-to-face with pale jutting hipbones, his own fingers hooked into the plaid waistband, that he realized what he had done. What he was about to do.

"Is this… I mean, is this ok? Do you want me to…?"

"YES," Sherlock exhaled enthusiastically, before his eyes regained focus. "I… not if you don't want…"

"I do. It's just…"

Sherlock's face fell. "You don't have to explain," he looked away. "I understand. It wasn't fair of me to expect – "

"No, no… Sherlock, it's not that. I promise. I just… I've never… done this. Before."

"Neither have I."

"Really? Oh well… yeah, but you're not the one about to… you know… _do it._ "

"No, John, I mean… you know what, it's not important."

"Of course it's important. What do you mean?" John waited, but when Sherlock remained silent, the truth started to dawn on him. "Oh. You mean, you've never… at all?"

"I'm a sociopathic ex-junkie with no friends, exactly how many partners did you think I'd had? Just forget it."

John's face lit up. "But Sherlock, don't you see? That's fantastic."

"How is me being a socially outcast virgin in my thirties 'fantastic'?"

"You told me once that you haven't got friends – you've just got one. Well, now you've also got one partner. And since I've never… since I've never been with a man before… well. It's is just me and you, Sherl."

The lines creasing the detective's face faded, and as he leaned forward and touched the sides of John's face, the blogger grinned, knowing he was in for another amazing kiss. As Sherlock's lips brushed his own, he felt the whispered words against his mouth.

"This is what you were picturing."

John swallowed hard. _No turning back now._

"Yes."

"Well then," Sherlock continued, leaning back in his chair, a nervous smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, "far be it from me to deprive you of pleasure."

Suddenly, it was all a bit too real. _I don't know how to do this._ _Oh god, what have I gotten myself into…_

"Perhaps I can help," Sherlock offered, rising to his feet and sliding his pajama bottoms to the floor, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be standing half-starkers before his kneeling flatmate, before settling back onto his chair with an annoying degree of grace. He leaned forward once again, sweeping John's lower lip into his mouth and biting down just hard enough to elicit a low breathy moan. He inched forward in his seat, a warm hand squeezing John's shoulder, then running lightly down the length of his arm, gripping his hand, and pressing it firmly onto his –

"Fuck," John sighed against Sherlock's tongue. It had never occurred to him that he might have this effect on someone so untouchable, someone he kept on such a pedestal, someone who had never indicated an interest in the merely physical.

"But it isn't, John. Not with you." The detective had pulled back the two inches necessary to meet he other man's eye.

"I'm… sorry?"

"Merely physical. You're correct. I've never been interested in that. And no one has ever been intriguing enough, wise enough. I know how that must make me sound, but it's true."

"So if no one has ever been enough, then why…"

"No one has ever been enough, John, until now."

John broke his gaze away from those hypnotic blue-green-amber eyes, feeling his throat go dry at the sight of the plush rose-hued lips so close, so very close.

"Fuck."

Sherlock grinned. "Since you don't appear to be feeling especially eloquent this evening," he teased with a good-natured tone reserved only for his closest friend, "perhaps I can once more be of assistance. I know what it is you were picturing."

John flushed crimson again, despite his hand still resting between Sherlock's legs being an obvious sign that he need not be embarrassed.

"Why don't I tell you, then, what I've been picturing."

That mesmerizing Adam's apple bounced before his eyes. "What… you've…? You mean, you've been…"

Sherlock leveraged himself toward John, forcing him onto his back on the rug. His nimble fingers were already drawing the belt fully out of its loops as he began punctuating his actions with the deep rumble of his voice.

"This thin striped jumper you're wearing. It belies the fact that you've still been doing abdominal and pectoral exercises, most likely in your room before turning in for the night."

John's breathing was become more uneven as his fly was drawn down, his trousers tugged several inches away from his hips, the gap in his pants not leaving much unexposed.

"You have a habit on Sunday mornings of taking one of your particularly long hot showers, then lounging about the flat in your bathrobe for several hours."

Though John's vision was fixed firmly on a minute crack in the ceiling plaster, he hadn’t failed to notice that the voice was much closer to his ear now.

"Your _day job_ has given me ample time to consider such things. And when, on occasion, I manage to suspend my logic for a few moments, there's always one particular activity that springs to mind."

A shadow passed over John's face. He blinked twice, then realized – it was Sherlock's torso, still clad in that threadbare cotton vest. He had entirely missed the moment when Sherlock had changed position, kneeling now by his head and sliding his long body down the length of John's, hovering just inches above him. A split second after he understood what was about to happen, he was engulfed by the glorious heat of his best friend's eager mouth.

Digging his heels into the floor, he stifled a moan against a slim, muscular, nearly translucent thigh. He could feel a nimble tongue rapidly circling the tip of his cock, and the utterly indecent hum of pleasure issuing from Sherlock's throat sent a shiver rippling through his entire body. It was too much and not enough and –

"Oh god, fuck, Sherlock, please!"

With a crude wet pop, the detective pulled off. Still stroking John slowly – _those fucking callouses are going to be the death of me –_ he gave a slight cough then intoned, "You know, John… this particular arrangement was specifically designed to allow you to simultaneously take advantage of your…"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, right. RIGHT. Yes, sorry, yes." Gripping those bizarrely attractive hipbones with both hands, John looked up, taking a deep breath. He wanted to, oh god did he want to, but head to head like this –

"Perhaps some further encouragement."

That tongue running up John's length again, the fiercely hollowed cheeks maintaining perfect control as he jerked to an impossibly hard state of attention. John imitated Sherlock's ministrations, taking that immaculate, nearly pulsing crimson cock between his lips and swallowing it down as far as he could manage, sucking hard as he slowly eased back, then taking a few seconds just to tease at the tip, flicking his tongue across Sherlock's slit and tasting the first thin beads of the reward he hoped he would soon collect.

The sensations of Sherlock's palms, lips, fingers against smooth, sensitive skin caused him to falter more than once, but the stifled moans wrung from the gorgeous man above him, the increased shaking in his legs and abdomen, drove John further and further toward his own edge while he clutched roughly, nails digging into alabaster skin.

And then Sherlock did _something_ with his throat that was more than John could bear, and he pulled down violently on the back of the detective's thighs, his own hips shuddering as he felt every ounce of pleasure being drawn from his body. Without a conscious thought, John greedily drank down each thick, bitter drop as Sherlock finally released everything he'd been holding back for so long.

Silence but for the pounding of blood in his ears. As several minutes passed, the darkness behind John's clenched eyes gave way slowly to the weak afternoon sun. Dust motes floated in the beam of light falling across Sherlock's body, which was strewn across the floor beside him, head by his knees. He lay still for a minute, thinking nothing, examining the unusual beauty of his… um…

"Boyfriend. Really, John, just say it."

The blogger smiled and closed his eyes once more. Just as he was contemplating a quick nap right where he was, heavy footfalls ascended the stairs and the unlocked kitchen door burst open.

"Listen, you'll like this one. Two murders, only potential witness is a street performer, one of those mimes. And get this – he won't break character to give a statem – what in the bloody hell…"

"Go on," Sherlock said nonplussed.

"There's… I…" Lestrade surveyed the scene in shock.

"Even someone with your skills must surely be capable of deducing what just took place here."

"Yeah… well… yeah. I mean. I can see what happened, it's just… Christ."

"John," Sherlock addressed the ceiling, "since our friend Gavin here – "

"Greg," John and Lestrade corrected simultaneously.

"Yes. Since he seems to be at the same loss for words you were earlier, perhaps you could offer him a cup of tea and explain the situation a bit more… delicately."

"No, no thanks, mate. I've gotta get back to the Yard, and you're – well, you're not wearing any pants."

"Mm. True."

"Greg," John began, having set his own clothing to rights and now walking the bewildered DI toward the door, "if you'd give us maybe an hour – "

"Twenty minutes."

" - twenty minutes, we'll be along to help. And um… sorry for…"

"S'alright. I've seen worse. It's just… bloody hell, John. After all this time, you couldn't have waited three more days?"

The blogger's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry… what?"

"Well, it's just – I've got every Thursday in the pool."

John closed the door as Lestrade made his way toward the street below, then cast an inquiring look at this ~~flatmate~~ boyfriend, who had regained his pajama bottoms and was waiting by the heating kettle with a triumphant smirk on his face.

"What are you so happy about?"

"You mean besides the mind-blowing oral sex?"

John felt the blood rushing into his face as he forced himself to maintain eye contact.

"Well… ok, don't be angry, but…"

"Oh god, what, Sherlock?"

"That pool… I, um… I've got Mondays."

The plethora of rhetorical questions and half-hearted abuse flowing from his partner's mouth was of no concern to Sherlock, who simply grinned into his tea. _At least now I know how to shut him up._


End file.
